The Runaways (12 page)

‘Manual labour,' said Uncle Ambrose, holding up his right-hand Sunday boot and admiring the shine he had got upon it, ‘can be of great assistance in the
development
both of intellectual and spiritual powers.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Timothy dutifully, rubbing away at Betsy's indoor strap shoes.

‘The Cistercian monks are agriculturists,' continued Uncle Ambrose, ‘and all great saints either dig or cook according to sex or temperament.'

‘We aren't digging or cooking,' said Timothy.

Uncle Ambrose looked at him over the top of his
spectacles
. ‘Do you consider that you and I are great saints?'

‘No, sir,' said Timothy.

‘I am glad to find you possessed both of humility and
observation
,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Pass me the brown polish.'

Both of them worked so hard that the work was soon done and Uncle Ambrose, rising, held out his hand. ‘We deserve a respite,' he said, and seating himself in his armchair by the fire, Hector on his shoulder, he took Timothy on his knees and reached for a book on the shelf beside him. For one awful moment Timothy thought he was to be educated in the middle of the afternoon, then he saw that the book was full of pictures and knew that Uncle Ambrose would never be so mean. It was to be another of the wonderful storytelling times, and he was to have it all to himself. He leaned back against Uncle Ambrose's shoulder and abandoned himself to the enjoyment and honour of the occasion, but twenty minutes later he gave a little gasp of surprise and sat up gazing at the new picture on the page. For there he was again, terrible yet wonderful, sitting this time not on a rock in the middle of an empty fountain, but among the roots of a great tree in a forest glade. He was not now listening in sadness for the dying echoes of vanished music, but making the music, his musical instrument held to his lips, his strong fingers spread upon the reeds. Nor, in this picture, was he lonely, for woodland creatures were creeping out of the forest to be near him, drawn by his music, and the trees were full of singing birds. For a whole minute Timothy could hear the music, beautiful, thin, and unearthly, and the singing of the birds. Then he whispered, ‘The goat man!'

‘You know the picture?' asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘No, sir,' said Timothy. ‘But I saw the goat man yesterday afternoon.'

‘You surprise me,' ejaculated Uncle Ambrose. ‘Where did you see him?'

‘In the garden of the fountain at Linden Manor,' said Timothy. ‘He sits there on a rock.'

‘Ah!' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘A statue perhaps.'

‘But he isn't playing any more, only listening to the echoes, and he's sad.'

‘No doubt,' said Ambrose, and he sounded sad too. ‘Turned to stone. Silenced by men's unbelief.'

‘Who is he, sir?' asked Timothy.

‘The great god Pan,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘The spirit of nature. Men worshipped him in ancient Greece.'

‘Don't they now?' asked Timothy.

‘No,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘They don't believe in him now.'

‘Is he real?' asked Timothy eagerly.

‘Not now.'

‘Was he ever real?'

‘When men believed in him he was real to them.'

‘Not now?'

‘Not now.'

‘Not now,' echoed Timothy sadly, and the echoes were like a bell tolling.

There was a long sad silence and then Timothy asked, ‘Is he the goat in the poetry?'

‘What poetry?' asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘The poetry you taught us. “Star of evening, bringing all things that bright dawn has scattered, you bring the sheep, you bring the goat, you bring the child back to its mother.”'

Uncle Ambrose looked at Timothy with affection and he said, ‘He might be. We'll say he is.'

‘Shall we believe in him?' suggested Timothy.

Uncle Ambrose's eyes twinkled. ‘That, Timothy,' he said, ‘is a most unsuitable suggestion to make to a clergyman of the Church of England. I am no longer permitted to believe in the ancient gods. You, of course, can do as you wish.'

Timothy, with shining eyes, closed the book. ‘I wish,' he said.

‘Take the boots and shoes back to the kitchen,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘It is nearly time for tea. Robert has not appeared. I'll fetch him.'

Robert, having swept out the stable and made
everything
neat and tidy, was lovingly polishing Rob-Roy's harness and talking to Rob-Roy, who answered him with soft conversational sounds that he thought were peculiar to Rob-Roy, for he had never heard a horse or a mare talking to its foal; if he had he would have recognised the low-toned consolation and
endearments
. They talked of a dream Robert had, a dream of galloping over the moors before breakfast, the two of them alone together, and then long outings when they would be out from the first cry of the bird of dawning until the star of evening brought them home. It struck Robert that since they had come to England he had never felt more comforted than he did now. The sound of the rain drumming on the roof only seemed to make the warm stable safer and warmer. He did not want his afternoon with Rob-Roy ever to end and when he had finished the harness, rubbing away at it until he had the leather shining like satin and the metal buckles winking like diamonds, he tackled the trap and made that spick
and span too. Then he set to work on Rob-Roy himself, combing his mane with a curry comb and stopping now and then to lean his cheek against Rob-Roy's neck and tell him how he missed Father. Because he was the elder son, Father had talked to him a good deal and had, he knew, felt special about him. One of his ears buried against Rob-Roy, and the other filled with the noise of the rain, he did not hear Uncle Ambrose come into the stable, and did not know he was there until he felt a hand on his shoulder and looking up saw the tall figure draped in a dripping mackintosh and wearing the most extraordinary headgear he had ever seen. Once it had been Uncle Ambrose's best top hat, but now, having become his third-best, it had shut up like a concertina beneath the weight of water that had descended upon it during the years that Uncle Ambrose had lived in Devonshire, and it was not what it had been.

‘Tell me, do you miss your father?' asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘Yes, sir,' said Robert.

‘Time passes,' said Uncle Ambrose, and his grip
tightened
on Robert's shoulder. ‘You'll be surprised at the way it passes. Before you know where you are, your father will be home again. Robert, would you like to ride Rob-Roy?'

Robert looked up at him with shining eyes. ‘Yes, sir,' he said. ‘I could ride him bareback, couldn't I, until I'd saved up enough to buy a saddle?'

Uncle Ambrose's eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, that explains that pail full of snails.' He glanced round the stable. ‘You've worked well this afternoon, Robert, you've worked very well indeed. I'll give you the saddle and you can save
up yourself for the bit and bridle.' Robert was
speechless
with shock, joy, and adoration, and also shame. How could he ever have thought Uncle Ambrose a beast? His uncle gave his shoulder a friendly shake. ‘Come along now. It's tea time. If I can teach you to construe a few simple Greek sentences as well as you polish harness I shall live to be proud of you.'

They went back to the house together most amicably and found that Ezra had made buttered toast for tea, and after tea, while they were still sitting round the
dining-room
table, Uncle Ambrose said, ‘This question of pocket money. The sums owing to you all should, I think, be paid on Saturdays. Shall we see what is owing today?'

He took his gold pencil and a notebook from his pocket, but it was unnecessary, for Robert had already totted up the total while the others were washing their hands for tea. He now laid the piece of paper before his
relative
. Uncle Ambrose adjusted his spectacles, his mouth twitching a little at the corners. Nan was already coming to recognise this twitching as amusement on the part of Uncle Ambrose, amusement which it was necessary to control lest Robert get too great an opinion of himself. Uncle Ambrose read aloud the information Robert had inscribed upon the grubby piece of paper.

‘Not correct, Robert,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘The sixpences are, if you remember, for a week's labour upon Rob-Roy, socks, and shoes. Only one day's labour upon Rob-Roy, socks, and shoes has actually taken place.'

‘Don't we start with something in hand?' asked Robert, slightly outraged.

‘You do not,' said Uncle Ambrose.

‘I only darned for five minutes,' said Nan shamefacedly. ‘I didn't do more work after I went into my parlour.'

‘Quite understandable,' said Uncle Ambrose. ‘A ha'penny out of the sixpence for you. A penny for Robert, a penny for Timothy. And what about Betsy? Didn't I see her helping Ezra make the Sunday cake? If she's to be assistant cook, an eventuality which I did not foresee, she must earn her sixpence a week too. A penny of that for today.' He made calculations with the gold pencil. ‘The totals for this week are therefore, Robert fivepence, Nan a penny ha'penny, Timothy tuppence, Betsy tuppence.'

He took a handful of change from his pocket, handed out tenpence ha'penny and immediately changed the subject. ‘Time for preparation. This evening, Nan and Robert, you will work in here, not in my library where I shall require to be in privacy for the preparation of my sermons for tomorrow which is, you will recollect, Sunday. And you will do work of a different nature. You will study the collect, epistle, and gospel for tomorrow, learning the collect by heart and also such portions of the epistle and gospel as I shall choose for you. Timothy must learn the collect and some verses of a simple hymn, Betsy the verses only. I shall require you all to repeat what you have learnt to
me tomorrow. Robert, fetch the pile of books which you will find upon my library table.' Robert did so and they were each handed a large prayer book and hymn book of their own, and shown what they must learn by heart. The amount which Robert and Nan had to learn was shocking. They dared not look at each other while Uncle Ambrose remained in the room, but after he had said good night and left them they did, their jaws dropping in dismay.

‘We'll never do it,' said Robert. ‘Not in an hour.'

‘We will,' said Nan. ‘If it couldn't be done in an hour Uncle Ambrose wouldn't have given it to us. He knows. We'll all four hear each other.'

It was just as she said. It only took Betsy, with Nan's help, ten minutes to learn two verses of
All things bright and beautiful,
and Timothy took a quarter of an hour over the same two verses and the collect, and then they went off to Ezra for their supper. Nan was a quick learner and at the end of forty-five minutes she was able to
concentrate
on helping Robert. As the clock struck seven he groaned and removed the wet towel he had wrapped round his head. But he was word perfect. ‘Though will I be in the morning?' he asked anxiously. ‘I'll hear you again before breakfast,' Nan promised him.

‘Do you suppose we shall have to listen to both Uncle Ambrose's sermons tomorrow?'

‘I think only one to start with,' said Nan. ‘He lets us down lightly.'

‘It's heavy going when he has us at the bottom,' sighed Robert.

But Nan perceived he was no longer thinking that Uncle Ambrose was a beast. Something nice had
happened between them, she was quite sure,
something
almost as nice as her parlour. Or as nice as her parlour would have been if she had not found the book in it. She pushed the thought of the book away from her and raced Robert down the passage to the kitchen, to the marvellous supper Ezra had prepared for them to make up for last night's gruel. But later, in bed in the dark, she remembered it again, for the sound of the wind and rain were eerie and she was scared. But then she remembered something else and she was no longer afraid. The spells in Emma Cobley's book might be wicked, and Emma Cobley herself, and Frederick the cat, and perhaps old Tom Biddle across the way was not all he should be, but ranged against them was the goodness of Uncle Ambrose, Ezra, Moses Glory Glory Alleluja, Daft Davie, and Lady Alicia, and the wholesomeness of the animals, Rob-Roy, Absolom, Abednego, Andromache and her kittens, and, of course, Hector and the bees, and good spirits whom she could not see, but of whom she was aware at this moment, holding over her in the dark a sort of umbrella of safety. She would not be afraid to finish Emma's book tomorrow. The wind, she realised, was dropping and it was no longer eerie, and the rain was no more than a soft murmur at the window that sang her to sleep.

chapter eight

sunday

Breakfast was later than usual next morning because Uncle Ambrose went to church before it. They used the extra time in getting themselves what they hoped was word perfect, and it was a mercy they did, for Uncle Ambrose had no sooner folded up his napkin after breakfast than he said, ‘Now then!’ and marched them into the library. Under his severe eye, and Hector’s, they acquitted themselves fairly well. Nan and Timothy made no mistakes, but Robert stumbled twice and Betsy got so mixed up in the second verse of her hymn that Hector said, ‘Hick!’ and shot out two mouse tails and a coffee spoon. Uncle Ambrose made no heavy weather over Robert’s and Betsy’s failures, merely remarking benignly that he would hear them again after dinner, and if they failed again, after tea, but not after supper, because if they failed after tea they’d get no supper, but he did not, he said, anticipate that misfortune, and now they must get ready for church.

The storm had passed and white galleons of clouds were sailing across a brilliant blue sky, but there was a morning chill in the wind and Ezra advised blue serge sailor suits, not white linen, for the boys, and coats over
the girls’ cotton frocks. Nan’s Sunday coat was pink and Betsy’s was blue. Nan had a straw hat wreathed with roses and Betsy’s bonnet was trimmed with
forget-me
-nots. They wore gloves, for in those days children were very dressy on a Sunday. Grown-ups also. Uncle Ambrose wore a top hat of marvellous height and a coat with long tails. Yet they only had to walk up the back garden and across the churchyard to the church.

Uncle Ambrose went first and the children followed behind in single file like ducklings following their parent to the pond, holding their large prayer books and hymn books and the pennies that Uncle Ambrose had given them; for to his everlasting honour he was not expecting them to put their own hard-earned pennies in the collection. Uncle Ambrose carried a large bible bristling with bits of paper that marked the places. When they reached the beehives they bowed and
curtsied
, and he raised his top hat and said, ‘Good morning, madam queens and noble bees. It is the first day of a new week and we wish you well.’ Then he replaced his hat and they went on into the churchyard, where at this season the grass was long, rippling in the wind and full of moon daisies and sorrel.

The children had not been in an English churchyard before and they were fascinated. The very old graves had headstones that leaned this way and that and were so weathered that the lettering on them was worn away, but the not-so-old ones had stones with names on them that one could read, and carved cherubs’ heads. There were several big tombs overgrown with ivy and surrounded by tall railings. Up the main path from the
lich-gate came a stream of villagers in their Sunday best and among them, the children saw to their
astonishment
, was Emma Cobley in a black bonnet tied beneath the chin with black velvet ribbons, a black shawl, and black mittens. She carried a very large prayer book, her eyes were on the ground and she looked very good indeed.

‘I’m going in by the vestry door,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘but you must go in through the west door under the tower. Nan, lead the way. Do not be alarmed. The sexton will show you the Vicarage pew. I trust you will set a good example to the congregation.’ Then he removed his top hat, opened the little door under a low arch and vanished.

Holding Betsy’s hand, Nan led her little flock round to the west door. The villagers smiled at them very kindly, and that was nice, but they also drew back respectfully to let them go first, and that was alarming, but with the tremendous clamour of the bells over their heads they went into the old church that was like a cavern under the sea lit with dim green light, with an uneven stone floor, shadows and pillars, and sunbeams here and there that had pierced down through miles of water from the world above. A strange little figure in a cassock, with the face of a grave and reverent gnome, moved towards them and to their intense relief they found that the sexton was Ezra. Without moving a muscle of his face, or making any sign whatever to show that he had set eyes on them before, he led them up the aisle and ushered them politely into a pew exactly beneath the pulpit. They trembled, for not only would they be exactly under Uncle Ambrose’s eye
when he preached, but the congregation behind them would be able to see what they did. And they would be sure to do something wrong, kneeling down when they should be standing, or dropping their pennies or saying amen in the wrong place.

Sitting very upright on the edge of the hard seat, they glanced furtively at the front pew across the aisle, a much grander pew than theirs, with cushions on the seat and hassocks with tassels at the corners, instead of just plain hassocks with sawdust bursting out as they had, and even as they looked, a small door in the north wall of the church opened, letting in a burst of sunlight, and through it there stalked a most majestic figure. He was tall and stately, dressed in green velvet livery, with
knee-breeches
and buckled shoes, and his white hair must have been washed last night, for it was like snow above his black face. He carried a tall cane with a silver top, such as major-domos carry in pictures, yellow gloves and an enormous prayer book with brass clasps. Closing the door behind him, he advanced with immense dignity, looking directly at the children, but giving no more sign than Ezra had done that he had ever seen them before. Entering the grand pew he sat down, said a prayer with one large hand over his eyes, then laid his cane and gloves on the seat and his prayer book on the shelf in front of him, placed his hands one upon each knee and, gazing straight in front of him, turned into an ebony statue. Nan, who was nearest to the aisle on her side, gave a sigh of relief. Moses, she knew, would do everything correctly and out of the corner of her eye she would be able to watch what he did and do the same.

The bells stopped and the choir filed in, eight little boys and four men, all with well-scrubbed faces and wearing starched white surplices, and Uncle Ambrose bringing up the rear in a surplice the size of a
bell-tent
, looking taller than ever and most alarming, and the service began. The choir were accompanied on a wheezy organ played by a stout lady in a purple dress and hat and brown button boots, a little boy with a scarlet face blowing a sort of bellows behind the organ. She played with zeal but no talent and the singing though hearty was not musical, for Uncle Ambrose himself was not musical and nor was anyone else. Except perhaps Moses. Nan had a feeling that Moses suffered during the singing, for though his wonderful deep voice kept the rest of them more or less within reach of the right note, its vibrations were full of sadness. And so was Moses himself. He was a tragic figure in the Manor pew, looking at times frozen with sorrow, aware that he was all that was left now of the departed glory.

When the time came for the sermon Uncle Ambrose towered above the congregation like one of the prophets of the Old Testament. He gave out his text in a voice like a trumpet and never had he looked more
magnificent
, yet it was strange to see him without Hector growing taller and taller on his shoulder. He looked as incomplete as the children felt without Absolom at their heels. ‘I wish,’ Timothy said to Nan, ‘that animals and birds could come to church.’

‘Sh!’ whispered Nan in anguish, and Timothy was aware of a chasm of icy silence opening between text and sermon, and of Uncle Ambrose’s terrible eyes
fixing them over the top of his spectacles. He blushed crimson and straightened himself. All four sat as though they had swallowed pokers, hands folded in their laps and eyes fixed on their prayer books on the shelf in front of them, and so they remained for
thirty-five
minutes, while Uncle Ambrose’s
incomprehensible
sermon rolled out like thunder over their heads. When it was over and he gave out the last hymn Betsy was so stiff that she nearly fell over when she tried to stand upright, but the last hymn made up for
everything
because it was
All things bright and beautiful
and she was quite sure, and so was Timothy, that Uncle Ambrose had chosen it to please them because it was the one they were learning by heart. No one dropped a penny. All four landed safely in the bag that Ezra carried round.

Sunday dinner was splendid, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and trifle, and Ezra waited on them in his shepherd’s smock and apron. Nan wondered how he managed to combine being sexton with being
everything
else that he was. His quick changes were magical and she suddenly wondered whether he was entirely human. Was there perhaps a strain of fairy in him? He had looked like a gnome in church. Were his ears pointed? To stare would have been rude, but as he turned to go out of the room she gave a quick glance, and they were. Her heart missed a beat.

After dinner Uncle Ambrose heard Robert and Betsy once more and this time they were word perfect. He handed round peppermint lozenges and said, ‘Next Sunday, and on subsequent alternate Sundays, Ezra will
drive you to take tea with your grandmother, at her request.’ He glanced with amusement at their startled faces. ‘Well may you look astonished. I myself could scarcely believe my ears when I heard that
magnanimous
old lady express a desire for occasional visits from you. The excellent Miss Bolt would also feel deprived if she were not occasionally in your fatiguing company. But not today. Both the admirable ladies require a short period of convalescence. Today you may do what you like until bedtime but,’ and his eyes burned through them, ‘you must not go beyond the Vicarage garden. Tea is at five. You are not required to attend the six o’clock evensong with Ezra and myself, but I shall expect to find you in bed when I come back. Ezra goes out on Sunday nights, but he will put a cold supper ready for you. One further point. It is the Sabbath and you must therefore employ yourselves in docility and silence. In the cupboard under the stairs you will find a few aids to these two excellent virtues. I am now going to my library for a period of repose.’

He went. They helped Ezra wash up and then ran to the cupboard under the stairs. It was full of parcels which must have arrived by post yesterday when they were being educated. They brought them into the hall and opened them on the floor. Inside the boxes were jigsaw puzzles, stamp albums with packets of foreign stamps to stick in them, painting books, paintboxes and brushes, plasticine, books to read about pirates, birds and animals, bees, kings and queens. And there was a rubber bone for Absolom. They gasped. They couldn’t believe it. Uncle Ambrose was marvellous. Apart from Father, he was the
first grown-up they had met who understood that you couldn’t be good without something to be good with.

‘And I said he was a beast!’ said Robert.

‘Let’s go and thank him,’ said Timothy.

‘At tea time,’ said Nan. ‘He’s asleep now.’

‘I’m going to paint pictures in the garden,’ said Betsy.

‘I’m going to stick stamps in,’ said Robert.

‘I’m going to read about pirates in the cedar tree,’ said Timothy.

Timothy, Robert, Betsy, and Absolom grabbed what they wanted and ran out to the front garden, Nan
stopping
behind to put the other things away in the cupboard and then following with a jam-pot of water for Betsy’s painting. They had, she found, made by common consent for the mulberry tree. Betsy was spreading out her painting things at its foot. Absolom beside her with his rubber bone, Robert was on a broad branch a little way up, Timothy was still climbing. Nan gave Betsy the water and sat on the grass by her for a little while until she realised they were all settled, then she went back up the lawn to the terrace where the window of her parlour stood open among the green leaves of the rose tree. Before she climbed through it she looked back and saw that Timothy was now right at the top of the mulberry tree, his book under his arm, looking out over the countryside like a sailor in the crow’s-nest of a pirate ship gazing out to sea.

Nan sat on the windowsill and opened Emma Cobley’s book. When she had opened it yesterday she had thought it was a recipe book, for each page contained a paragraph of instructions beginning, ‘Take…’ But instead of being,
‘Take 4 eggs and a pint of milk,’ these recipes began with things like, ‘Take a boiled frog and the feathers of a black cock’, or, ‘Take a root of hemlock digged in the dark’, or, ‘Take wolf’s bane and cinque-foil and mix with the blood of a dog.’ It was when she had read this last one that she had abandoned the book in terror, for Absolom was distinctly plump and Emma Cobley the witch only lived at the top of the hill. Nan knew about witches, for there had been people called witch-doctors in India and everyone had been very frightened of them. But now, having seen Emma going to church and looking so good, she wondered if there was some mistake. Perhaps Emma had been a witch when she was a girl and now in old age she had seen the error of her ways. Yet Emma in her shop had not looked like a woman who had seen the error of her ways, whatever she might look like in church. And then there was Frederick. No one could say Frederick was an ordinary cat. Moses disliked him as much as Ezra disliked Emma, and Moses and Ezra were good men. Perhaps if she went on reading she would find the spells changing to recipes and Emma from someone nasty to someone nice.